


Save Me

by ForgedInDragonFire



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (Merlin and Arthur), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Arthur Pendragon Returns, Arthur takes care of Merlin, Child Abuse, Child Merlin, Comforting Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Danger, Father Arthur, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guilty Arthur, Gwen Forced Arthur To Learn About Children In Avalon, Human Experimentation, Modern Purge, Once and Future King, Our Arthur Is Just A Little Bit Helpless, Protective Arthur, Running, Scared Merlin, Struggling Arthur Pendragon, cause let's face it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-22 01:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16588382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgedInDragonFire/pseuds/ForgedInDragonFire
Summary: At the discovery of a warlock, the modern world tears itself apart. People burn, suffer, cry, scream.Merlin didn't run fast enough, didn't understand he should have left. After going through war after war, trial after trial the gods weren't done with him. He was deaged to a mere 6 years old.The last thing he saw were the closed doors of an armoured government van."I don’t care if I have to fight a god, Merlin, I will find you."





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Merlin is not mine BBC owns it

Nobody remembered him. Well, they remembered a version of him, a wrong, twisted version and for some reason that hurt more than anything, that they’d forget Merlin. Arthur had watched, here in his afterlife, as their stories were told less and less. Merlin became an old man. He went from brother to friend to mentor/weird old wizard. Sometimes he was even portrayed as bitter, it didn’t suit him at all. Arthur watched, and he waited. Magic, it died out. And Arthur couldn’t help despair for his brother, his Merlin, how alone he would be. Arthur got used to watching, watching as Merlin fought, hefting a gun and running bravely into the war. Watching as Merlin looked hopefully at the face of every soldier then crumpled, running to his tent and crying, all through the First World War, all through the second. He watched as Merlin sat, holding his gun firm in his hands, not agreeing with his orders but forced to go through with them, staring at the sky; “ _What would Arthur do”?_ And how often he would whisper that phrase. “ _Would Arthur be proud? What would he do if he were me?”_ So much death; men falling and screaming and agony and tense silence before the boom signifying more death. _No man is worth your tears, no man._

The sun would rise, its golden rays peeking through the canvas, Merlin would sit and take a book from deep inside his jacket, his journal from Camelot. He decided to read about his adventures in Ismere this time, laughing slightly at his naivety. _A warrior,_ he reads, _learns to enjoy each day as it comes._ Later he stood on the battlefield, gun cradled in his arms as if it were something precious. “ _Because,”_ he whispered, as the tension builds, and muscles tense and hearts jump, “ _he knows it may be his last.”_ He ran at the enemy with a roar. Many hours later, as the sun set, lighting the battlefield bronze as it shone on splatters of blood and lit on the bodies of dead men; Merlin would stumble weary into his tent. “ _Are you proud of me Arthur?”_ He’d chuckle almost sadly, “ _Are you proud of me?”_

It was in these moments that Arthur would almost cry. “ _Yes!”_ He’d yell, beating the divide between this world and the next. “ _Merlin!”_ And Gwen would come, accompanied by a sad Lancelot and rest a hand on his shoulder.

_“Stop torturing yourself, Arthur, you can’t do anything.”_

_“Stop it!”_ Arthur had screamed, “ _That’s Merlin, my brother, my little brother, and I can’t do a thing!”_ Then Arthur had choked slightly, hands covering his mouth, “ _I can’t do a thing.”_ Gwaine bounded over.

 _“Let’s go find a tavern!”_ Leon smacked him upside the head. Lancelot looked down at the world below, shaking his head slightly.

 _“No use dwelling in a land we no longer belong,”_ Arthur had only felt more lost at that.

 _“Merlin,”_ he’d whispered, unwilling to look away even as he was pulled back by his friends.

Arthur didn’t think it could possibly get worse than that, watching Merlin fight and hope and get crushed over and over. But apparently it could, because now he couldn’t find Merlin at all. He watched and watched, and scrolled through the world, searching desperate for that one face. It was straight after his magic went haywire and he got de-aged to a mere 4 years old, losing his memory and himself in the process. It had been kind of funny at first, watching a confused, tiny Merlin wondering the streets of London, even Gwen got invested in watching him after that. Only than Merlin was found and put in the care system, and it was no longer amusing, he was put in foster home after foster home, beat and abused. It was only a matter of time really, before he was found out. This young Merlin didn’t understand that the bubbly, warm power inside him was bad. He healed his dog’s broken leg. The last thing Arthur saw was the frightened animal shot, and a screaming Merlin being taken away and locked in an armoured government van.

 _Why couldn’t it be when Merlin needed him? He would be back when Albion needs him most. How many people would die before that? Would Merlin join them?_ Arthur almost threw up at that, a tiny Merlin of only four years being tortured to the point of death to find the reasons behind his ‘freakishness.’ It was soon after Merlin being taken away that the burnings started, ordinary people, for magic had died many centuries ago. _It was a modern purge, almost an enactment of the single most destructive event in Camelot’s history. And Merlin was still missing._

 _I don’t care if I have to fight a god, Merlin, I will find you._ He determinedly ignored the voice in the very back of his head. _What if he’s already dead?_

_Somewhere in the world a little boy woke, his back hurt from the hard floor, white lights blinded him, and he wasn’t quite sure he was meant to be caged. His mind was empty, blank, aside from flashes of a white castle and blond hair._

_“Art,” he called, as if his fantasy could rescue him, “Art, Art. Where are you?”_

_No one came._


	2. Chapter 2

_“Arthur,_ Arthur, Arthur,” he knew other words too, plenty, but only this one mattered, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he murmured that name over and over, sobbing into his knees through the frail hospital gown. He smiled at flashes of gold hair and soft grins and a crown collecting dust as its master sought equality. It was in these moments where he felt his heart may really beat just like the others.

It was in these moments he felt vaguely human. He rubbed his cheeks dry, watching almost fascinated as the blue flowers blurred with tears and the white fabric turned see through. It was a horrid thing really, down to his ankles with sleeves that dropped far past his hands no matter how much he rolled them. He tried to ask for them to cut it shorter once, he shuddered and flinched in remembrance, he would _never_ ask again.

 _Thud. Thud. Thud. Shoes, footsteps._ He cringed backwards, back hitting the harsh iron barring the cage. _They are coming._ Vibrations shivered up through the stone floors. He bit his lip anxiously, yanking at the iron cuff that stopped his magic. _They are closer._ He felt a shriek building in his throat. _He didn’t know anything! They wouldn’t stop. They never stop._ He whimpered and cried, scooting back further into the wire, though it dug in his spine. _Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me._ He dug his palms in his eyes, knees tucked protectively in his chest. The steps stopped. _He could feel them sneering, staring, watching._ He glanced up, a woman stood there, gazing at him as if he were some poor peasant caught stealing.

“Merlin, sweetheart,” her voice, like sweetmeats riddled with daggers. Merlin crouched low, whimpering deep in his throat. _Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me._ He stood, huddling against the cage, tiny fingers clinging determinedly to the back of the cage. “Don’t be afraid,” she tutted. He screwed his eyes shut tight, breathing faster, _faster._ Heart freezing, stuttering. Pulse thundering. Something clicked, hinges squealed, _no, NO!_ He sobbed, fingers aching as they grabbed tighter to the iron bars.

“Stop this, Merlin,” _tighter, tighter, muscles; clenching, aching, tearing._ Cold fingers wrapped around his ankles. _Get away!_ He tucked his legs but she pulled him. He gripped the bars harder, determined not to let go, _ever._ He felt like he was being torn apart from the hips as she yanked his legs. He kicked, screaming, tears drenching his face. His fingers began slipping. _No, NO._ He shifted to get a better grip but his left hand was torn from the bars, his right elbow cracked as it strained. His fingers slipped closer to the end, he held on by the very tips.

“Arthur!” He screamed, “Arthur! Arthur! Noooo,” he was ripped from the cage, “Noooo! Arthur! Help me! Arthur!” The harsh stone floor tore at his skin, shredding the hospital gown, but he didn’t notice, kicking and writhing and screaming as he was dragged, “Arthur! Arthur!” He twisted, wild eyes staring straight into those of the lady who dragged him, “Don’t hurt me,” he moaned, shuddering, falling still as his hopelessness truly sunk in, “Please don’t hurt me.” She didn’t look at him, dragging him into a room and strapping his dead weight to a metal table.

“Arthur,” he whimpered, sob bursting from his throat, “Arthur. _Save me.”_  

_~X~x~X~_

Arthur’s breath was ragged in his throat as he finally reached the entrance to Avalon. He glared at Freya as she glided in front of him, giggling at the mud that coated his trousers and tunic.

“Really,” Arthur gasped, hands fisting at his sides, “I fought two Gryphons, a ruddy giant python obsessed with hugs, _why does the afterlife have one of those anyway?”_ Freya chuckled, fingers over her lips. “And,” Arthur declared exasperatedly, throwing his arms wide, “Two swamps, a river, and _three_ bogs.”

“I assume,” Freya said softly, “That they were there to keep souls from escaping.”

“You’ll not stop me,” it didn’t sound like a threat, tired as Arthur was, he still managed to muster up a glare.

“No,” Freya breathed, holding a pale hand out, Arthur watched wide eyed as a hilt materialised followed by a beautiful blade.

“Excalibur,” Arthur gasped, rushing to take it from her. “Thank you,” Freya handed him the scabbard. Arthur kissed her icy cheek gratefully. She slapped him on the shoulder.

“Walk off the waterfall, your body will materialise at the bottom,” Arthur grinned, walking to the edge and turning to wave goodbye. “Save our boy,” Freya saluted him and Arthur did the same before falling backwards.

Arthur felt disorientated, he turned in circles, taking in the grey buildings far beyond his head and the thick smog that choked him. Cars drove past, Arthur jumped each time, hand going to the sword at his waist. _1, 2, 3, countless,_ his mind spun, hand clenching on the hilt. He’d watched, _known_ what he’d face, but nothing could ever have prepared him for the real thing. Metal beast growling as they zoomed past in a blur of colour. Arthur steadied himself and began walking. He passed houses and shops, he had no real direction. The pavement grey and hard against his bare feet, at least it wasn’t hot. A women sidled up to him, Arthur could smell drink and smoke on her breath. She shoved him in the chest.

 _“_ Hello _gorgeous,”_ she drawled, hips moving in a way that Arthur guessed should have been seductive but looked like a drugged worm, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“No,” Arthur said dryly, shoving her aside to continue on his way. A bony hand snatched his wrist. Arthur tried to continue but the women held him there.

“Naughty, naughty,” she tutted, bloodshot eyes wide, small pupils almost slits, “You’ve not been marked,” she turned his arm, studying the skin, lips pulling back from rotten teeth as she grinned, “You’ve not been marked,” she repeated.

“What,” Arthur snapped, arm dropping back to his side as her grip went slack. “What do you mean?”

The women waggled her finger in his face as if he were a child, “naughty, naughty,” she whispered. She walked across the road, a place Arthur was not yet ready to go.

“What do you mean?!” He yelled after her, fists clenched at his sides, “Come back here this instant! That is an order from your king!” He could hear her cackling over the traffic.

_X~x~X_

He hurt, he hurt badly. He hurt in places he didn’t know could hurt. He couldn’t even notice the foul taste of metal as he panted, tongue just touching the floor. His legs burnt, his tummy prickled and cramped. _Pain. Pain. Pain._ It took over his every sense, flooded his mind. Writhing. _A_ _gony._ Tears burnt hot, whimpers caught in his scream – raw throat. He clung to blond hair, to blue eyes. He clung to the one thing he knew, _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._ They told him he doesn’t exist. But he knew, _his golden prince, his hero. Arthur._ Maybe he’d say his name not in contempt, say it as if it didn’t mean pain.

 _“Merlin,”_ he whispered, trying to picture just how it would fall from his king’s lips, _“Merlin, Merlin.”_ He couldn’t imagine the gentleness, the protective tang, the safe rumble. No one had spoken to him that way before, not that he could remember. He had no name. He _was_ no one. For some reason that concept was far easier for him to understand. Perhaps, if he thought that way, he could start again the moment those letters past the lips of one who cared for him, who pitied him a little. A four year old deserved a bit of humanity.

He grabbed the cuff on his wrist, giving a small cry as he lifted it to relieve the bloodied skin. Metal clashed as the slot flipped open, a plastic bowl grated across the floor. He reached over, dipping his fingers into the slop, throat clogging as he watched the brown sludge slide off his hand, dripping with a foul splatter back into the bowl. He gave a heaving sob and sucked the mixture from his fingers, fighting to keep it down as he gagged. He dipped his fingers in again, he felt something stringy, he drew it out. A hair dangled in his tiny fingers, it was black, and curly, and beaded with stew. He shouldn’t care, he had eaten far worse, but he was just done, so, so, done. He scraped the hair on one of the bars, buried his head in his elbow, and cried.

“HOY!” He jumped as someone slammed his fist against the cage, he peeked out from his elbow to see a sneering white coat, “Do you want your water or not?!”

He looked at the stew, undecipherable things floating in brown mush, he looked to the hair, spinning, shining in the harsh white lights. _It wasn’t worth it, he could go without water for just one day._ He shrunk back as the man snarled, gripping the bars and shaking his cage.

“Arthur,” he whimpered, “please hurry.”

“He’s not real,” the man growled, kicking his cage before stalking away. Merlin watched him go.

_Arthur’s real. He is. And he will save me soon. He always finds me. Always._

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Merlin, it belongs to BBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Merlin doesn't belong to me, BBC owns it

It went quiet. Completely quiet, the air seemed somehow thicker as Arthur glanced around uneasily, _something’s wrong. Very wrong._ Covers were pulled over windows, the light coming from each house smothered. Cars swung madly into driveways as if something were chasing them. Door after door slammed and locked. His blood pulsed in his ears, heart clenching in his chest. _Just what happens in the dark?_ He found himself fearing what would happen when the last orange rays disappeared, already they shrunk, _lower, lower._ The sun disappeared, Arthur found himself wanting to beg for its return. Dust blew through the street. It looked like a ghost town in the twilight, abandoned, forgotten. Arthur began to run when the sky turned navy, not minding the sharp ache as his bare feet slammed against pavement. He couldn’t stop, _faster, faster, buildings; blurring, far behind him._ His lungs expanded desperately. _Run, Arthur, run._ His toe hit the ground, Arthur gave a cut off groan as he slammed into the path. _He was done, done before he even knew what he runs from._

“They’ll get you, you know,” Arthur sprung to his feet to see a boy, his dirty brown locks dropped down mid – neck and his brown eyes hardened, hardly any boyish spark left.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked.

“Are you like me?” The boy asked instead of answering, chin tilted in contemplation, but legs tensed. He was weary.

Arthur tried to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder but he moved away, “I’m Arthur they took a boy, Merlin. I need him back.” The boy’s face turned slightly sympathetic as he patted Arthur’s shoulder.

“If they’ve got him he’s dead, mate.”

“No, he’s not,” Arthur snapped, defensive. “Where do they keep them?”

“No one knows,” the boy stepped away from Arthur, “the only ones who know are those caught.”

“Where are the officials,” Arthur asked, nodding. The boy chuckled, head shaking.

“You’re mental, nice knowing you.” He offered Arthur a grime lathered hand, Arthur gripped it, shaking firmly.

“You too…”

“James, I’m sixteen.” James laughed incredulously, “I don’t know why I said that!” Arthur smirked.

“Arthur Pendragon, I’m thirty,” James blew out an impressed breath.

“You’re getting on mate, I tell you what, walk out into the street shouting pro – magic things, that’ll get you jailed faster than you can say ‘Warlock’.”

“Thanks, mate,” Arthur said, turning away to walk into the jaws of the enemy alone, willingly. 

“Hey!” Arthur yelled, feeling so very stupid in the empty street, “you’re all imbeciles. You hear me?! Magic never did you any wrong! You need to stop this murder!” Dark shadows crept from the houses, jumping fences, stalking toward him, hands on guns. Arthur stuck his chin out stubbornly, purposeful or not, he’d go out fighting.

“They are innocent people!” Arthur gritted his teeth as cuffs clicked shut tight around his wrists, “Even now,” Arthur snarled, “Your conscience screams at you! You pigs! You  
disgu-“ Arthur gagged as a sock was stuffed in his mouth. A man leaned down to his ear.

“Shut it, blondie.”

“Mmf mmm mmm mmm mmfmm.” Arthur remedied his embarrassment with a fearsome glare. ‘Don’t call your king blondie’ sounded far better in his head, so much better, in fact, that that phrase should have had an indefinite stay in his brain. The men laughed and shoved him, making him stumble. Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed. _Unnecessary intimidation,_ Arthur snorted, _amateurs._

_X~x~X_

_“Stop,”_ he muttered, blinking blearily through half-lidded eyes. A collar encased his neck forcing him more firmly on the table. A strap around his forehead. He desperately thrashed at the bonds of the drug but not even a finger twitched. His mouth worked, his eyes worked, that was it.

“Stop!” he screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!” A strap pulled tight around his hips, three held his legs. Purely for show, the drug ensured he couldn’t function. A doctor loomed over him, blue mask covering her mouth, weird hat on her head. For a moment he thought his lungs stopped functioning too, as she held up a sharp knife.

“Noooo,” he moaned, tears squeezed from his eyes as he clenched them tight. “Arthur,” he whispered, “I’m scared,” a sob burst from his throat, “I’m so scared.” They tore the ratty hospital robe from his body, ripping the material from under his back.

“First incision,” _no, no._  Merlin screamed as his world exploded in pain.

It’s hard to explain the feeling of being sliced open, the world blurred, vision greying as fear and pain took him. _You’ll be okay. You’re doing good. Hey look at this! Where’s the magic, doctor?_ The words merged, fluctuated, spinning both in his head and past it as his world ceased to make sense. He clung to the memory of Arthur, protective, heroic Arthur who _would_ come for him.

“Arthur!” He shrieked amidst screams and whimpers, “Arthur! Arthur!”

“Stitch him up,” _something was inside him, tugging at his skin, needles over and over; string, pulled, tied._ He was barely conscious as he was thrown limp into his cage.

“Arthur,” he whispered, once pudgy child fingers digging into the floor, his head throbbed, slamming in his skull, _thud, thud, thud,_ unrelenting. He ached, he _hurt_ so badly, he just wanted it all to end. He tried to clutch his stomach as a wave of nausea left him panting, but he was sent into a whole other pain as his clumsy palms hit the stitches. They cut him open, _they cut him open,_ it hadn’t really registered before. They sliced him up to see what was inside like some, sick experiment. His head flopped, hitting the floor with a dull, vibrating, ring. He stared at the bars as they doubled and switched and blurred before his tired eyes.

He had long cried himself dry, or maybe he was just too dead to care; too numb. He remembered little from his life ‘outside’, he remembered how other kids would play with their mums and dads who would protect them with their life. He remembered they were happy, so happy, not seeing the bruises coating the young boy down the road. He didn’t understand much; did that make Arthur his father? He cared for him, protected him, loved him, he _would_ save him. He could help Arthur never forget people that hurt, he decided he’d be really good at that.

It suddenly didn’t matter so much when they didn’t come with stew that day, or the next; that they were apparently starving him. His brain was stuffed with _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._ He thought of all the things they could do (Walks in the park, throwing bread for the duckies, buying a puppy) He was particularly hooked on that last one. What else did fathers do? Hunting? He wrinkled his nose, why would _anyone_ want to kill a bunny? The fantasy filled his head until he was grinning. Someone who _cared,_ someone who _really_ cared. He felt almost giddy now, as he waited in his cage.

_X~x~X_

“You sympathise with them,” the officer spat, glaring madly into Arthur’s eyes, “you burn with them.” He shoved him into the cell and the door swung shut with a clang.

“Because sympathy is an obvious indicator to evil!” Arthur called from the other side of the solid iron door. Arthur smirked as the door shuddered under the officer’s kicking.

“Shut up!”

“I can do that, I can definitely do that. You want me to shut up? It’s my thing. You just wait, I’m going to be so quiet that-“ Arthur cut off as a long, suffering sigh sounded on the other side of the door. _Thank you, Merlin,_ Arthur grinned, it had been long since he’d thought over one of their conversations (He got particular pleasure remembering smashing his servant in the head with a spoon).

Now that it was quiet, Arthur looked at his surroundings; iron roof, three iron walls, iron floor. The only curious thing was one wall, it was barred rather than solid like the others, great, thick, vertical bars with ten-centimetre spaces between each. It was clear he was meant to see what was beyond. Arthur walked up, peering through the bars, it opened on to a concrete courtyard, ashes blew around it, irregular scorch marks spotted it. Arthur drew a breath, flashing back to his father’s ruling. _Screams; ceaseless. Suffering; endless. Smoke; thick. Flesh; melting._

It was real, Arthur shuddered slightly, and slid down the bars to sit bewildered on the floor. _It was all real._ He’d known, of course he’d known, but like metal beasts that run far faster than horses, and buildings tall as Camelot’s highest tower; the realisation didn’t truly set in until he saw the evidence.

He twisted to stare out again. The courtyard was a circular shape, cells outlined it, all facing in. They held prisoners in varying state, but none of them looked as if they’d been there long. One cell just held wood, different heights and types. On the grey stone wall dividing each cell, chains jangled and clanked. The only sound in this dead place. Arthur was beginning to see the stupidity of his plan. Why would they keep the first found warlock in the same place as everyone else? Merlin was far too valuable to kill.

_“Dammit,”_ Arthur hissed, he stood, slamming his hands on the bars. He shook them, beat them. _They were strong._ He sat against an iron wall and put his head in his hands, tugging at blond strands. He felt his breathing slowly calm.

“He – Hello?” A small voice sounded from the cell next to him. A little girl’s slightly pitched tone.

“Hi,” Arthur said, blowing out a long breath and letting his head fall back against the wall.

“You rep – lied to me,” she said, sounding surprised and pleased, and just a little bit suspicious in a way that only kids could manage.

“Should I?” Arthur asked.

“Nobody wanted friend,” she said, “they say to Macey, ‘don’ make friends when you’re gonna die.’ I don’t understand, people say die means no come back, where do you go?” _Oh, sweet Avalon. They’re going to burn a child?! _Anger rose hot and constricting in his chest, teeth gritting. He felt dizzy from the sudden force of it.

“I’m Arthur,” he tried to soften his voice but it still came out with a bit of a growl. He hoped giving his name would distract her. He never became amazing at emotions, much to Gwen’s exasperation. She spent many centuries teaching him the ways of – in her terms – _‘unemotionally constipated humans_.’ 

“Hello Mister Arthur, my name’s Macy.”

“That’s nice,” Arthur stood, legs shaking beneath him. He put the tips of his fingers on the icy cold of the wall and began pacing. Back, forth, back, forth, a process without variation and without end, pointless, but strangely calming. His other hand clenched in a fist at his side. It was silent but for the dull slap as his feet hit the iron floors.

 “Mister Arthur?” Arthur jumped slightly, coming to an abrupt halt.

“Yes?”

“Where do you go?” Arthur heard a vibrating thud as she sat back against the wall.

“What?” He struggled to think back, their last conversation lost in a haze of anger and thought.

“When you die,” Macy clarified, “where do the dead go?” Arthur went silent. Death was a factor of life even from his birth. A fear or misunderstanding of it seemed foreign to him.

“Where you can’t come back,” he said shortly. It went quiet after that. Arthur sat against the back wall, staring lazily out at the courtyard. He wondered vaguely when they would die. When he would wake to the sound of heavy screws pounding into the wood, pulling the pyre together. To the sound of kindling scattering on the floor, surrounding the lean post that would hold someone until they burnt to death. He would escape before then, he _had_ to. He had a promise to keep. If the keeper of the gate to Avalon hated him, then his chances of seeing his friends there were slim. And he’d leave Merlin. _Mer_ lin, who had never once failed him. He heard soft snores in the cell next to him as Macy slept.

He should, he would need the energy to run.

If he could get out at all. For the first time Arthur found himself fearing the wrong end of a torch. Between a rock and a hard place. What a stupid saying. For being trapped between a pyre and a cell was far harder. Most would say _impossible._ And Arthur wasn’t quite sure he could prove them wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not ditching this story. I've got quite serious family issues going on right now and so it may be a couple of weeks before I'm able to write. I'll just say this, it involves emotional abuse, and I'm feeling a lot more crap than I have in all my life which is saying something huge considering how many years this problem has gone on. Something about having it finally named kinda throws it in your face and forces you to face it as truth. It's difficult when you need to love the person doing it.

**Author's Note:**

> Your kudos and reviews honestly make my day!  
> Even if it's criticism please help me improve my writing! Though please remember to be kind.
> 
> Thanks Guys!


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